“I ’pared it all yere, young marse, ’caze I didn’t want to ’sturb yo’ w’ile yo’ was washin’ an’ dressin’, nor likewise to keep yo’ waitin’ arter yo’ got t’rough. Now it’s all yeddy fo’ yo’.” Harcourt sat down to tea, home-made bread, sweet butter, new-laid eggs and fried rashers of bacon. And if he did not do honor to Martha’s cooking it was because his appetite was not yet good, and not because the supper was plain, as the poor woman insisted that it was, with many apologies. “See, ef I’d knowed yo’ was comin’, young marster, I’d had some hot yoles an’ fried chicken, an’ cakes an’ ’serves; but yo’ tak’ me so unawares,” she said, as she removed the dishes and cleared the table. “Indeed. I have had all I want, Martha, except the news you promised to tell me, and I am ready for that now.” “All yight, young marster. Yo’ draw yo’ cha’ up to de fire, an’ soon’s ebber I fole up dis tablecloff I come an’ sit down on dat little cricket an’ tell yo’ all about it. I’s got heaps to tell yo’, an’ dat’s de trufe,” said Martha, completing her last act in setting the place in order. Then she drew a small bench—called in her parlance a cricket, probably because of its being an humble little chimney-corner seat, and began her story. “Yo’ know dat time w’en ole mist’ess went sudden to de city?” “Yes,” sighed Harcourt. “Well, she nebber tell me wot took her off so sudden. Said she’d tell me w’en she got back. But, Lor’!” “What?” “W’y, ’fo’ she were ready to come back, my po’ ole man—po’ Moses—tak’ sick; he did, my po’ ole man did; an’ w’en he t’ought he was goin’ to die he got a letter writ to ole mist’ess to come home, ’caze he had somefin mighty pa’tickler to ’fess to her ’fo’ he went. Yo’ heerd all ’bout my po’ ole man goin’ to glory, o’ coorse, young marster?” “No,” Harcourt replied, with a twinge of compunction, for he had forgotten even to inquire after faithful old Moses, although he might have missed him from the cabin. “I am very sorry to hear of your loss, Martha; very sorry indeed.” “An’ yo’ nebber year ’bout it ’fo’, young marse?” “Never.” “Now, see dat, now. W’ere yo’ been all dis time, not to year ’bout it, young marse? But dere, I know yo’ been off to collidge, ’way f’om eberybody, ’cept ’twas books an’ sich. An’ nobody to yite to yo’, ’cept ’twas ole mist’ess, an’ she not capable of yitin’ eber since my po’ ole man die. So ’ow could she tell yo’?” “Stop!” exclaimed Harcourt, again alarmed and mystified. “Just now you said that your mistress was well. Now you say that she was incapable of writing to me. How is this?” “Young marse, she is as well—de ole madam is—as any ageable ole lady ob her time ob life can be in body healf; but she can’t settle down her min’ on to yitin’; no, she can’t—de ole madam can’t. But she’s well—well an’ likewise happy; happier now ’an’ she hab been since de ole marse fell in battle—de ole madam is. Yes, sah!”